


Arleen

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Death of minor character, F/M, I'm actually very proud of this bleeding thing, Just give it a go- trust me on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scout slowly finds himself falling for an older woman.<br/>And older, MARRIED woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arleen

       It was the laugh that caught him, the hook that was thrown from across the room, glittering as it flew to land into his open mouth. The scout would remember turning, would remember seeing her behind the bar handing the beer to the demolition man, and wondering, ‘Who _is_ that?’

       Capital ‘who’, italicized ‘is’, like in the romances his Ma would read.

       He would remember staring past the engineer sitting to his left, forgetting that there had actually been a conversation going on until the man had tapped him and asked, “Son, are you doing okay?”

       “Fine!” he had looked at the men around the table, watching him, watching him watch them back, “Fine, ah…’nother round ah beer?” and left before they could say anything.

       He would remember walking through the sea of people towards her and noting that the pearls she wore were probably the only pearls he had ever seen in this place.

       The scout used his real name when he introduced himself. It hadn’t occurred to him not to. He was far too caught up in the way her mouth had curved around her own name, the way her crows feet deepened as she smiled.

       “Arleen”

       He’d have asked about the missing ‘D’ he thought her name should have if he hadn’t swallowed his own tongue.

       He would not remember what he had talked about, wouldn’t remember what he had done to keep her attentions firmly fixed on him, but the scout would always recall the way her hands had lifted to cover her mouth when she laughed only to stop short at her neck, her neck which bent back and **vibrated** with the sound.

       The word was bolded in his head. It was bolded because it seemed to strike him like a tidal wave, winding him, making him crave to breathe yet not knowing how.

       The demolition man would later ask what he was doing, flirting with a woman twice his age. He would not actually remember giving a reply to the comment. What he would recall were the eyes of the sniper as he watched from across the table.

       They were oddly knowing.

       He would remember the nights he spend at the bar counter, away from his coworkers and friends, acting like a fool just to get her to laugh, just to get that hand to reach up and land at the base of her throat. He would remember the way she told stories and pulled him into conversations with other people at the bar.

       He would remember the way her hands felt on top of his the first time she taught him how to make a mixed drink, callused fingertips that had a moisturizer edge.

       “Well done, sweatheart. How about you drink your prize?”

       He would not remember exactly how fruity and sharp it tasted, but he would remember the way she grinned, with all her teeth and eyes and pearls shining.

       He would not remember the faces of her coworkers.

       He would remember the first time she disappeared, vanishing from her position at the bar for two weeks, only to come back as if she had never left. When the scout had asked where she had gone, she had just waved a hand and said something about in-service days.

       “What for?”

       “Back to school.”

       “You have a kid?”

       “Try a hundred and twenty.”

       He must have made a face, because she had laughed, he remembered, she had laughed and said, “I’m a chemistry teacher.”

       He felt like he asked a million questions, but she had answered all of them smiling.

       When September came the demolitions man had laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder, pointing him towards the bar and asking him if he missed her.

       He didn’t remember what he had replied with. Honestly, the scout could not remember most of September, or October, but when November was over and December came with the news that his Ma was going to spend Christmas in France with ‘a friend’, he phoned the newspaper in town and told them they had a new paper boy.

       The heavy weapons guy had asked him “Why?”

       He had replied, “Why not?”

       He remembered the first time he ran the six miles into town, rising before the dawn and crossing the threshold of the newspaper office just as the sky started to pinken, remembered how his hands had shaken when they gave him his first round of papers, remembered how his feet felt after running over ten more miles of winding road to get his stretch of houses done.

       He remembered the disappointment of not seeing her.

       He remembered the disappointment of not seeing her for the next month, and oh, how sore he had been that month.

       He remembered spotting her as she stepped out of the corner grocers one frosty Wednesday morning, though he blocked from memory the fact that he almost ran straight into a lamp post when he laid eyes on her. He would recount the sudden sweat on his palms the tremble in his voice when he called out to her, would remember the way her head snapped to attention, would remember the way her whole face seemed to shine.

       He remembered walking towards her and counting the wrinkles around her eyes, around her mouth. She looked different away from the greasy lamp light of the bar. Better. Better with a capital ‘B’, because as with all things, he was emphatic.

       He remembered the way she laughed when he said this.

       “Those are some pretty flattering lies, young man.”

       He would remember her address when she told him, after the scout exposed to her that he was doing a paper route. In part, he would have confessed had anyone ever asked him, this was because she promised him breakfast, but on the whole, he remembered it because it was _hers_.

       The italics in his head showed possession. _Hers_. _Her_ address, _her_ eyes, _her_ wrinkles around _her_ smile. It had to be in italics because there was no one else in the world who could have those things.

       Like _her_ laugh, which he would remember hearing almost every Sunday from that point forward as she stood on her front step in her yellow bathrobe and pearls, the faintest ribbon of a night slip showing underneath and a plate of toast and jam in her hands just for him.

       He would remember the first time the sniper told him not to go, to stay, to watch the news with the rest of the guys over flavorless cereal and powdered government milk. The scout would think it odd, would think it almost out of character,

       He would not remember the first time he saw a car parked in the driveway, but he would remember when the man came to the door.

       Man was underlined. It was underlined because the guy was scary huge.

       And glaring.

       And when he took the paper, the scout made sure- painstakingly sure- to say nothing.

       So when the door was slammed in his face, when everything was silent except for the ringing in his ears, for the harsh sound of his own breath, for the early morning birds, the scout would remember feeling like the world had been pulled out from under his feet.

       He made sure to not return, but he also made equally sure to jog by her house every day regardless of whether or not he had his route.

       He would remember the grass growing taller, would remember the weeds sprouting under the privet hedge, would remember how the blinds were never lifted. These days would slot together like slides in a movie reel, playing at breakneck speed in his mind. Nothing else of those days stuck except the nagging worry towards the ever-spreading clover, towards the slowly withering petunias.

       He would remember the look on her face when he finally saw her again.

        ~~Relieved.Afraid.Happy.Hopeful.Angry.~~ He would strike through the words in his head one by one. He never could find the right word to describe the expression. It had been so many things at once.

       He did not ask about the way she held herself so tightly, about the car that had been in the driveway. Instead, he would remember asking if she needed someone to mow her lawn.

       “I usually do that.”

       “I know, but how about I do it today. It’s Sunday. You should take it easy.”

       He had mowed the grass and had started to weed by the time she came back out of the house, dressed and bearing ice tea. Her pearls and the glasses caught the sun, making her in her yellow turtleneck and white pants look like-

       The closest he could get to a good comparison was that art style from France his mom would go on about. She brought a magnet back once, of a woman with a halo bearing campaign. He could not remember what it was called, but that, he decided, that was what she looked like, if you could say a person looked like an art movement.

       He would remember how, even then, she had held herself so tightly. Still, sitting on the clippings of the back yard, drinking slowly, he began to see her come back. He didn’t know from where, but he had been happy to see her smile with all her teeth by the time he left, head filled with stories from her classroom about accidental explosions and bad jokes.

       He would remember how the sniper mentioned the end of January, leaving the comment hanging in the air like waiting frost. The scout had told him to shut up, to mind his own business, to stay out of his life, but he would have been lying if he said he didn’t remember suddenly being very afraid.

       Work started, and the paper routes stopped.

       The rest proceeded like a haze.

       He would remember after one particularly bad day the sniper pulling him aside. There had been a twitching in the man’s grip on his shoulder that would stay with the scout, though he could never put his finger on why that was.

       When the sniper finally turned to face him, the expression he wore was one of such genuine concern, it was shocking.

       “You need to snap out of it mate.”

       “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

       “Come off it. You’re hooked up on that sheila.”

       “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

       “Listen to me,” he had crouched to be eye level with the scout, had placed both his hands on the young man’s shoulders. The scout would remember this, he would remember every detail of that man’s face as he said, “This will not end well. It never does. You need to let her go.”

       The scout had made a point to run to her house that Sunday and did not come back until well after dark. Not until every shovel of snow was thrown from her driveway, every errant snowflake brushed from her front walkway, every bird feeder filled, and every bowl of soup she poured for him eaten.

       Arleen had said it was only fair to do so. She had said he didn’t need to do any of it, but he saw the tenderness in her shoulders, in her fingers tangled with her pearls as she shivered in the doorway, and insisted.

       He could feel the sniper’s eyes as he walked through the door just as he heard the clock strike an ungodly hour of morning, and was glad when nothing was said.

       The scout made that long trip to town on foot every Sunday after, even when the car reappeared in her driveway. He would remember walking past, looking out of the corner of his eye at the drawn curtains. He could feel a sense of –

       foreboding

       -welling up inside of his chest.

       He couldn’t put the word in a sentence. It seemed too big for any restraints. There were some days where the scout felt like the sensation was very much like the drain at the bottom of a shower. All the drops of water swirling around and being sucked down, down, until there was nothing left, until he would engulf himself from the inside out.

       He would remember the next time he saw her, with the car gone and with her wearing too much makeup for him to feel comfortable.

       “You ah, you got some new eye shadow or something?”

       “Don’t know what you mean.”

       He would remember how it was purple. Too purple. Too purple and put on too thick. He could see the powder starting to cake and crack, revealing an even darker purple underneath.

       She twirled her pearls with shaking fingers. He bit his tongue.

       They baked bread in silence.

       He would remember the shock the next week, the first time the sniper offered to drive him into town.

       “You’re going to freeze if you keep this up.”

       “Weren’t you the one who said not to keep seeing her?”

       He had just shrugged and looked away.

       The scout would remember her face when she opened the door and saw the sniper in the van, would remember the way her eyes darted back and forth until he introduced her to ‘his friend from work’.

       She invited them both inside, and they broke the bread from last week with laughter.

       The scout would remember the car ride home, the feeling of food in his stomach keeping him warm against the cold winter night, the way the sniper said, without looking at him,

       “I think I know why you’re in love with her now.”

       “Dunnowhatyou’retalkingabout.”

       He would remember the side eye he had received, the deep inhalation of breath and baited patience. The scout hadn’t been sure he was going to breathe again, but then, “It can’t last mate. Please believe me when I say this.”

       The scout never accepted the sniper’s offer to drive again.

       Winter turned to spring, and the snow turned into rain. It had come in great downpours, flooding the dusty roads and turning the landscape into a seemingly endless ocean of mud.

       He would remember running through that every Sunday just to get to her.

       He would remember her sugar cookies shaped like daisies and her black, bitter tea, sitting in the florida room as the rain pounded the earth into submission. He would remember sitting next to her on the porch swing during those torrential downpours, where her feet would be tucked up underneath her and he would be left in charge of gently rocking them back and forth, back and forth, in the defining sound of rain on an aluminum roof.

       He would remember the next time the car left, when the rains finally let up and the desert flowers started to bloom, when she wasn’t quick enough to apply her mask and he found himself face to face with her wearing a bruise twice the size of his own fist.

       “Jesus, Arleen-”

       “It’s nothing.”

       He would remember her trying to shut the door, would remember how he caught it in his hand, would remember how he cupped her face in the other.

       “That’s not nothing.”

       “I’ll be fine.”

       “Arleen-”

       “You need to go,”

       He would remember being so afraid, “You don’t have to live like this!”

       He would remember the way she would not meet his eye, would remember stepping inside, shutting the door, wrapping his arms around her, “You don’t- it doesn’t have to be this way. I can take care of it. I can- I can get you out of here, or I can get rid of him.”

       He would remember the way she tried not to cry, and he could tell, he could tell because she held her breath and shut her eyes the same way his mother did, “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. Just please- please let someone help you.”

       He would remember the headlights lighting up her face as they shone through the front windows, would remember the look of terror in her eyes, would remember the way she looked at him and whispered,

       “You need to get out of here.”

       He would remember hating himself as allowed himself to be pushed towards the back door, would remember the pounding in his knees and the pounding in his chest as he ran home. He would remember the terror.

       He would remember being woken in the middle of the night by the sniper.

       “Get up.”

       “What’s going on?”

_“Get up, now.”_

       He would remember jumping into the snipers van and seeing a strange glow in the distance as rain poured down.

       He would remember, as they drove closer, noticing it was a fire.

       He would remember the exact moment in time when he realized it was Arleen’s house.

       He would remember jumping out of the van before it had even stopped, rushing towards the house until one of the firefighters grabbed him.

       He would remember screaming. He would remember crying. He would remember beating the fireman with flailing fists until the sniper pulled him off and held him.

       He would remember hanging there limply in the sniper’s arms, holding him like a harness, away from the blaze.

       He would remember when they brought her body out.

       He would remember screaming.

       In the newspapers he refused to carry, articles would read that the explosion was an accident. He had not meant to look, but when the spy opened the paper at the breakfast table and her face stared back at him from the front page, he had to excuse himself.

       In the gossip at the bar, when the sniper finally convinced him to ‘get out of his own skin,’ for a bit, he would remember hearing that Arleen had supposedly taken that chemistry degree of hers and blew both herself and her husband sky high.

       “That’s a shame,” he would remember one man in overalls saying, surrounded at a table by men in overalls nodding, “Hank was a good man. That woman of his was an absolute nutcase though.”

       The scout lost that fight, and a tooth, but didn’t care.

       He would remember the silence in the sniper’s van as he drove him home.

       He would remember the sniper comforting him when he started crying and screaming half way back to base.

       He would keep screaming, in later years. That moment would be solidified in his memory, petrified in the stone of his mind. He would wake up unable to breathe, sparks going off behind his eyes as if he had just been staring into the blaze. He never told anyone why he would end up in the kitchen with a glass in his shaking hands.

       Everyone made assumptions. He was alright with this.

       There was no grave to visit, even if he had wanted to which, were he completely honest with himself, he wanted to. He already knew that when a person had no power of attorney, then it became property of the state, left to be cremated and-

       Well, he didn’t know what happened with the ashes of the unclaimed. He remembered his mother being angry about her aunt disappearing in the system like that, lighting candles on her birthday because there was no ground upon which tears could be shed.

       If anything, he was angry nobody claimed her. He was angry nobody was willing to walk to the morgue in town and go, ‘She’s mine’. Arleen deserved to be loved, to be claimed as an intricate part of someone’s life. She was important.

_She was important._

       He took up the tradition of lighting a candle on the first day of school.

       Everyone made assumptions about that too. He was alright with this.

       After his death, when his children went through his estate, they found a string of pearls in a lock box beneath the bed. The assumption was that they were grandma’s, perhaps a gift from her second husband that their father had inherited, perhaps older than that. They would be passed from house to house, from neck to neck, always with the story of, “These were your Grandma Mary’s pearls.”

       They would eventually end up in a pawn shop window in a seedy corner of Worcester, displayed on a stand that looked like a neck and chest made of sea shells, until a young woman who looked like a model for Mucha walked into the store and bought it.

**Author's Note:**

> What, you thought it would end well? I could have sworn I warned you.


End file.
